Waking Up.

November 30, 2011


I had a bourgeois fantasy, unbecoming of a girl of my position.

In it I was cold, hard, and engaged to be married.

I so badly want this for us. This thing. You know and I know you’ve been waiting. For. For. Ever. More. This is how things end. In utopia. The static state. Status based. When the morning after dew drops crystalize. Four one each of your cheeks, and one drop on my finger. Hard, clear, rare, and rarified. Our friends will pay to see. And in their bond to us solidify that faith. Now ours. And not theirs. Envy will decorate the corners of their eyes. A crust of emerald sleep eternal. And, thus encrusted those damned orbs will stare out onto a baren landscape laid before them. Our infertile double income blooming cold like the crocus. And they, the envious self made gods will grow pale staring thus at the garden they have sown. Toaster ovens and state-of-the-art espresso machines cracking the slowly thawing earth. The gardeners resentful of their own flowers like old money parents, themselves the sons and daughters of the cold and hard, stiff and cringing at the being of their offspring, vigilant against an Oedipal undoing, they become Jocastas. The guests of honour at this thing, our wedding.

Then I woke up. And armed myself.